


Intrigue Party

by OneBlueUmbrella (bigblueboxat221b)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mystery Stories, No Angst, No Sex, No Spoilers, Party, Pre-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, and a mystery party, and nothing to worry about, but there are familiar characters, no idea how to tag this, no violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:28:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27298660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella
Summary: Detective Inspector G. Lestrade,You are cordially invited to an evening of intrigue.Prepare to test your observational skills against trained professionals. Are you up to the challenge?Saturday, September 18th.A car will collect you at 7pm.Dress: formal.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 109
Kudos: 178





	1. Chapter 1

The whump of something landing on his tottering in-pile caught Greg’s attention, and he automatically groaned. At a glance he could tell it was heavy paper, his name printed in some kind of cursive script. That kind of mail only ever meant one thing, and it was never fun.

“What?” Sally asked, grinning as she studied his expression.

Greg tapped the envelope in response, still reading the report he’d been labouring over before she walked in. He saw in his periphery as she picked it up and examined it with an exaggerated show of interest.

“What’s it for?” she asked, clearly amused at his reaction. His grunt was not enough of an answer, because she asked again. “Come on, might as well tell me.”

Greg sighed, giving up. He wasn’t going to be able to concentrate until she left, and she wouldn’t leave until he answered her.

“These fancy envelopes always mean some kind of formal ceremony,” he said. “Penguin suits and a lot of boring speeches.”

“Oh it must be an honour to be invited, though,” Sally said, grinning. She waved it at him. “You should open it. No idea what wonders await until you’ve seen inside.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “I can hardly wait.” He took the envelope but added it to his inbox instead of opening it.

Sally leaned forward, her eyes amused. “What if I told you I know what’s in that envelope and it’s not what you think?”

“I’d say you’re a terrible liar,” he retorted.

“You know I’m an excellent liar,” she replied, clearly unfussed by his response. “And I’m also the proud recipient of an invitation exactly like that one.” Triumphantly she reached into her jacket and pulled out an identical envelope, the jagged tear in the top making it clear it it’d been opened.

Greg raised his eyebrow, impressed Sally had taken him by surprise. Begrudgingly, he picked up his own envelope, meeting her smug look with a glance of his own. It must not have been as withering as he’d like because she just crossed her arms, sitting back on his chair as he tore the envelope open.

The invitation looked like a dozen others he’d received since becoming DI; heavy paper, fancy script.

“Read it,” Sally urged.

 _Detective Inspector G. Lestrade_ , read the top line. Greg rolled his eyes. These things always started the same, as though he’d be impressed by his own title.

 _You are cordially invited to an evening of intrigue,_ it continued, and Greg finally found his scepticism replaced with interest. This was not the usual greeting. He read on, frowning at the rest of the card.

_Detective Inspector G. Lestrade,_

_You are cordially invited to an evening of intrigue._

_Prepare to test your observational skills against trained professionals. Are you up to the challenge?_

_Saturday, September 18 th._

_A car will collect you at 7pm._

_Dress: formal._

“Any ideas?” Sally asked.

“Does yours look like this?” Greg asked, handing his over.

Sally skimmed it, nodding when she was done. “Yes,” she said. “Word for word.”

“What do you think?” Greg asked. “It’s pretty short notice.”

“I was going to write it off,” Sally admitted, “until I saw you had one.”

“What, it’s less likely to be some crazy person if I got one too?” Greg said, with a laugh.

Sally shrugged. “Yeah,” she said. “Actually I thought it would have something to do with Sherlock,” she said. “Or his brother.”

Greg nodded. That thought had occurred to him as well. The mysterious cars certainly had a Holmesian lean. “I wonder if either of them received one,” he said thoughtfully.

“Not if they’ve sent them,” Sally pointed out.

“But if I ask they’ll either say they did,” Greg replied, “or they won’t have a clue. Either way we’ll know if they’re likely to be there.”

Sally threw her hands up, acknowledging Greg’s point. “Well, let me know if I need a new dress,” she told him.

Greg grinned at her. Whichever way this was going, it would be more interesting than the reports he’d just put down.

Picking up his mobile, he called Sherlock.

“What,” came the answer before it had rung more than once.

“Thanks for the invite but I think I’m washing my hair that day,” Greg said. He’d learned the very hard way it was easier to jump straight to the sarcastic comments when Sherlock was in this kind of mood.

The silence only lasted a second, but it was enough for Greg to know Sherlock was interested. He’d never admit to it of course, and when he hung up without another word, Greg grinned. Without putting his phone down he dialled John.

“What the hell did you say to him?” John answered.

Greg grinned again. “Afternoon,” he said cordially.

“He’s not gonna eat ‘til he knows what you’re talking about,” John told him. “Thanks for that.”

“So he doesn’t know,” Greg mused.

“He doesn’t know what?” John said. “Yes, I am talking to Greg,” he said to someone. “No, I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

“I got this weird invitation,” Greg said. “It sounded like a Holmes kind of thing.”

“Have you called Mycroft?” John asked.

“I don’t have a number for him,” Greg admitted.

“Well, someone’ll be monitoring this conversation. When they pick up his name he’ll hear about it,” John said easily.

Greg nodded, then did a double take. “Wait, what? Mycroft’s monitoring your calls?”

“Yeah,” John said, as though it was obvious. “He’s probably monitoring yours too, mate.”

“Really?” Greg said. _Why would he do that?_

“Well not personally, but I’d bet his team’s listening in,” John replied.

Greg nodded, assimilating the new information. It was hardly surprising, of course, and yet there was something oddly reassuring about it. Must have something to do with Sherlock, though.

“Well I guess I’ll wait for a call, then,” Greg said.

“Yep,” John replied calmly. “Usually the best with Mycroft.”

Greg had to agree. As he hung up from John, he realised how true that comment really was. Mycroft contact him, never the other way around – he didn’t have a phone number. Not even the knowledge his phone was being tapped. Jesus, even John had more knowledge about how Mycroft worked. Greg supposed John and Mycroft might talk about Sherlock now; he knew he and Mycroft spoke less than they used to, especially about Sherlock. When they did talk it was always at Mycroft’s invitation, if you could call a car pulling up beside him an invitation. Things had always been so easy until that one night, and now they weren’t exactly difficult, yet their meetings were shorter and far less regular.

Greg shook his head, trying to rid himself of the memories. Too much Scotch and a reflective mood had pushed them both into saying enough ambiguous things to press a weight of potential on the night. He chided himself for his lack of courage, yet Mycroft did not take the opportunity, either. He really was pathetic. Holding onto a single night of things more unsaid than said. Knowing things had changed after but without the courage to actually bring it up. He ran one hand through his hair, wishing his brain would let it go, but now there was more to chew on.

He was still staring when his phone buzzed.

It took a second to focus on the picture John sent, but Greg didn’t need the details to recognise the invitation. He flicked sideways to read the text.

_Looks like we’re all invited to the ball, Cinderella._

Right. So John and Sherlock were both invited. Greg could picture Sherlock coming up with some kind of reason to send the invitations, but it didn’t involve anything to do with John. If Sherlock was planning something, he’d either keep John out of it or bring him in entirely.

So did that mean it was Mycroft?

Before Greg could wonder how he might actually get hold of Mycroft, his phone rang.

“Lestrade,” he answered without looking.

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft’s voice was smooth as always, but the very fact of hearing it brought Greg up short.

“Mycroft, hi,” he said. “What’s up?”

The hesitation was a surprise. Mycroft never rang or picked him up without knowing what he was going to say. Greg frowned in the second before Mycroft spoke.

“I have received an invitation,” he said carefully, “of an indeterminate nature.”

“Right,” Greg said cautiously. Was this part of some plan? He couldn’t imagine what Mycroft could possibly gain from such a ruse, though.

“It is unclear from whom it came,” Mycroft replied.

“And you think it might be me?” Greg asked, surprised.

“The thought had occurred to me,” Mycroft admitted.

Greg blinked, thinking, then decided he might as well ask. “Why would you think it was me?” he asked finally.

Another hesitation and Greg had a strange realisation: Mycroft was finding this conversation difficult.

_How unexpected._

“Personal invitations are rare,” Mycroft said quietly. “Few people would consider sending such correspondence.”

 _To me._ The words hung in the air, unspoken but understood.

“What does it look like?” Greg asked.

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft replied.

“What does it look like?” Greg repeated.

“You have received the same invitation,” Mycroft said quietly.

“I can’t say that without reading it,” Greg began, but Mycroft cut off the rest of what he would have said.

“You are cordially invited to an evening of intrigue,” Mycroft quoted from the invitation.

“Yeah,” Greg said. _Might as well go all in._ “I thought it might have been from you, actually.”

“Unfortunately I must disappoint you,” Mycroft replied. “It was not I who posted these.”

Greg nodded slowly. “Well, whoever it was, they’ve invited you, me, John, Sherlock, and Donovan.”

“Donovan?” Mycroft repeated. “Your Detective Sergeant?”

“You know her?” Greg asked.

“I am aware of her name,” Mycroft said.

“Excellent evasion,” Greg said as an aside, “and maybe that means this is about you.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft repeated.

“Well, all the invitations have gone to people connected to you,” Greg mused, more to himself than to Mycroft.

“If I might disagree,” Mycroft said, “I would argue the invitees all bear a closer connection with you than me.”

“Me?” Greg repeated, but he had to admit Mycroft had a point. “Jesus.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft murmured. “Perhaps you and I might make some discreet enquiries with people in our respective lives. Other invitees might shed some light on the situation.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “That’s a good idea.”

“Very well,” Mycroft replied.

“So are you planning on going?” Greg said. “To the,” he gestured to the invitation, “this party thing.” He winced at the awkward language.

“It may depend on the rest of the attendees,” Mycroft said cautiously.

“And if you’re working?” Greg said with a grin.

“It could be arranged either way,” Mycroft conceded, and Greg could hear the smile in his voice.

“Well I’ll be there,” Greg told him. “Sally wouldn’t let me miss it, and if Sherlock’s not the one who’s organised it I want to see if he can work out who it is.”

“Fair enough,” Mycroft replied. “Shall we say a car will collect you tomorrow night so we might compare theories?”

“Sure,” Greg said, pushing down the flash of excitement at the idea.

“Until then,” Mycroft said, and he was gone.

“Until then,” Greg parroted into the empty line. While his mind was still on the invitations, he rang his sister (she hadn’t received anything but gently berated him for his recent absence), then composed a text, trying to sound as sane as possible as he asked everyone in his phone’s address book if they’d received an invitation lately.

The replies came in thick and fast, and Greg tried to keep his answers short.

The upshot was that nobody knew what he was on about except Molly (“I can’t wait!! :) New dress!!”) and, to Greg’s surprise, Anderson (“Is this considered a work event? Is there an open bar?”). He tried to concentrate on the reports again, but with responses coming in all afternoon, it was close to impossible. He managed to sign some paperwork, relying more on Sally’s attention to detail than his own; at least it would look like he was doing something productive.

By the time he was ready to sign off, Greg was wishing he’d asked Mycroft if they could meet tonight instead. It was doubtful he would sleep properly, wondering what Mycroft had found, but there was no way he could contact Mycroft to change their arrangements. John may have been right, but Greg couldn’t think of a single way of working Mycroft into a conversation on his phone without sounding like an idiot.

The second the clock hit 6pm, Greg shucked on his coat and headed for the door. It was unlikely he’d be more focussed tomorrow, but at least there would be the promise of relief that evening. He was still shaking his head, wishing he’d cigarettes instead of talking himself out of it last time.

“Those things’ll kill you,” the smug voice came from beside the building.

Greg stopped, shaking his head that Sherlock had bothered to wait for him. He looked closely at the detective, then grinned. “You can’t figure it out, can you?”

The irritated glance was enough to confirm Greg’s idea.

“So you don’t know who’s doing this,” Greg said, as much to confirm it as to enjoy saying again.

“Clearly,” Sherlock snapped back. “It’s obvious you don’t know.”

“Either,” Greg added. “And John doesn’t know?”

“Would I be here if he did?”

“You might be if you wanted to gloat,” Greg said. He was well versed enough to read this look too – Sherlock grudgingly conceded the point. “So what do you know?”

“I know who it is not,” Sherlock said, almost spitting the ‘t’ at Greg. “A simple act of elimination.”

“Elimination?” Greg asked, playing the game.

“A list of people invited but clearly too unintelligent to make arrangements without leaving a trail,” Sherlock snapped.

“This is really bugging you, isn’t it?” Greg said with a grin. It was small recompense, but seeing Sherlock so clearly frustrated was perversely satisfying. “Look, I’m meeting your brother tomorrow night. I reckon this is centred around him, he reckons it’s about me.”

“He’ll meet you tonight,” Sherlock snapped, pulling out his phone. “From here.”

“Sherlock, it doesn’t matter-” Greg began, more alarmed at Sherlock’s response than his own annoyance earlier. This was clearly more than a minor irritation to him.

“It does,” Sherlock said. He looked at Greg, sighing before saying rapidly, “The only people capable of doing this are me and my brother and I know him, he would not pass up the chance to gloat should he ever manage to pull off something of this magnitude.”

Greg opened his mouth to disagree, but it was not the moment to argue. “Okay,” he said, deliberately injecting the word with the resignation he knew Sherlock expected.

Sherlock was ostensibly ignoring, of course, and Greg was still vaguely surprised when he spoke.

“My brother is otherwise occupied this evening,” he said, stabbing at his phone. Without further discussion, he strode past Greg.

“So can I assume you’re coming?” Greg asked.

“John has insisted on it,” Sherlock replied, turning to call over his shoulder without slowing down.

Another grin, and Greg turned towards his own flat. Despite his earlier concern, he was in a good mood. This could be more interesting that he’d initially thought.

His phone buzzed, and he read the brief message without breaking stride.

_Unable to meet tomorrow. Sincere apologies. Will speak privately at the party. – MH_

Well, it seemed world politics were playing their part. Greg would just have to wait until the party to find out what Mycroft may or may not know about all this.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg wrinkled his nose, tugging again at his bow tie. Every time he had to hire a tux, he considered buying one, but never actually got around to it. Now that he was being invited to more formal things – mostly work, but still – he really should consider doing it properly. This one fit well enough for a rental, but Greg knew it would be clear to everyone that it wasn’t his own. It was his own fault for leaving it to the day of the party, really.

He was about to turn to the rental guy and agree to the hire – he wasn’t going to find anything that fit him better, and he did have to get home to get ready – when his phone rang.

“Lestrade,” he said absently, pulling on the bow tie harder so it unfurled and slid from under his collar. “Right,” he said, hanging up.

“So you’ll want one night’s hire?” the suit guy said, appearing behind Greg.

“Turns out I won’t, mate,” Greg said apologetically.

He slipped the guy twenty pounds for his trouble before stepping outside. The car was waiting, and he slid inside without comment. The voice at the far end of the phone wasn’t Anthea, but the message had been similar in tone. Don’t hire the suit; get in the car. Greg was used to not questioning, and in this situation it appeared he was not in control at all. The car drove across town before arriving at a tailor at the other end of the social spectrum. This was a place Greg wouldn’t have felt comfortable walking past, let alone actually entering.

“Mister Lestrade.”

He was greeted by someone whose name he immediately forgot, and the next hour was a whirl of fitting his new tuxedo, which would apparently be delivered in a couple of hours when he was due to be dressed for the party. Greg declined the car home, preferring the walk to clear his head. He couldn’t remember anybody’s face, let alone their name, and the topic of payment had never been broached. It was interesting this was happening; he wondered if he was the only one being supplied with a new tuxedo. Mycroft would have his own, of course, so it was hardly a good measure of who was being targeted, assuming it was actually one of them.

_Unless Mycroft was behind the suit but not the party…_

The walk home did Greg good, clearing his head. Whatever happened tonight, he’d try and have a good time. He checked his mailbox on the ground floor, heart fluttering a little when he saw the same kind of envelope as the original invitation had been supplied. As soon as his flat door closed behind him, Greg tore it open, impatient for whatever information was inside.

A single piece of paper held a simple message.

_Your car will come for you at 7pm. Please bring your invitation._

Greg turned it over, but there was no new information. He shrugged, unsurprised. Perhaps tonight there would be some answers.

He made a sandwich and ate an apple – who knew what the food situation would be – before shaving carefully and having a shower. He was happy enough to watch the second half of the football in his pants and dressing gown until a discreet knock on his door told Greg his tux had arrived.

He swallowed as he accepted the suit bag from the delivery person, sudden nerves fluttering up. This was real, now. He was getting dressed for this…whatever it was. Probably nothing sinister. Mycroft was going, which meant a certain level of security would present. Greg found the thought quite comforting, actually, as he dressed. He didn’t like to admit he’d chosen new underpants and socks to go with the suit. Not that anyone would notice, but it didn’t feel right to wear his almost-ready-to-be-replaced pants with such a nice suit. He refused to consider the idea that someone might actually see his pants tonight. What a ridiculous notion!

Standing up from tying his shoelaces, Greg took a second to admire himself in the mirror. It really was a very nice tux, he had to admit. Made him look slimmer and taller, two things he would choose to change about himself. The shiny lapels (was it satin? He had no idea) were a nice touch, too. Subtle, but something different.

Greg grabbed his wallet and separated his flat key from the rest. He didn’t need that bulk ruining the line of his jacket, which was the kind of thought he never entertained. Maybe it was the nice suit, or the attention of the tailors, but he wanted to take more care than usual tonight.

When the car arrived he was ready, invitation in the breast pocket of his best coat. He was surprised to see Mycroft already in the back of the car. Surely they were coming from different parts of London?

“Hi,” he said, a little awkward for his surprise.

“Good evening,” Mycroft replied easily. “My apologies for missing our meeting earlier this week.”

“No problem,” Greg replied. “This isn’t one of your cars, is it?”

“It is not,” Mycroft said. When Greg raised an eyebrow, he continued, “I have asked Anthea to investigate how the company maintains only paper records and is not willing to share details of their employer for this job.”

Greg grinned. “Whoever’s doing this is good,” he said.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied grudgingly. He glanced at Greg. “A new suit, I think?”

“Yep,” Greg said. “It wasn’t quite the standard of kidnapping I’m used to, but this was the result.”

Mycroft nodded, a slight smile acknowledging Greg’s remark. “Another part of this plan,” he said.

“I noticed you didn’t get a new suit,” Greg said with a grin. “So maybe it is more about me than you.”

Mycroft gave Greg a look that said, ‘we both know why you have a new suit and I don’t but I’m too polite to say so’, and Greg found himself laughing.

“Are you not in the least curious about the purpose of this evening?” Mycroft asked. He appeared astonished that Greg was laughing so hard.

“Yeah, of course,” Greg replied. “But so far, I’ve been invited to a very swanky kind of ball, been provided with a tailor made tuxedo and had a nice car pick me up.” He grinned. “And if you can’t find anything sinister in the works, it’s hardly likely, is it?”

After a moment Mycroft nodded. “It is unlikely,” he agreed. “And I have seen to it that security have been hired for the event itself.”

“See?” Greg said as the car pulled up. It was a fancy hotel, small and unfamiliar, but clearly a public building. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Apart from the actual intrigue,” Mycroft murmured, bending to speak quietly in Greg’s ear as they both surveyed the scene.

“Yeah, but we’re both really good at that,” Greg said with a wink.

Mycroft barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes, another expression Greg recognised. They offered their invitations to the concierge, who smiled at them both.

“Good evening Mr Holmes, Mr Lestrade,” the receptionist greeted them. “Might I take your coats?”

“Thanks,” Greg replied. He could feel Mycroft’s eyes lingering as his tuxedo was revealed, and he smoothed his lapels self-consciously. “What do you think?”

“It is an excellent piece of work,” Mycroft replied, still tracing the lines of the suit with his eyes. “It suits you well.”

“Thanks,” Greg replied.

“Your instructions for the evening,” the concierge said, returning without their coats. She handed each a sealed envelope. “Please do not share the contents with anyone.”

“Okay,” Greg said, shooting a sideways glance at Mycroft, who was accepting his own envelope. “Let’s stand over there. I want to read mine before we go in.”

There was a sign beside one of the doors leading from the lobby. _Intrigue Party. Private event._ Greg led them over to a small alcove beside it. He glanced at Mycroft, a little nervous, but Mycroft was already easing up the flap at the back of his envelope, so Greg did the same.

_Good evening,_

_Welcome to the intrigue party._

_Each player has their individual instructions._

_Each player has a secret for this evening which will colour their behaviour._

_Your task – should you chose to accept it – is to identify as many secrets as possible. At the end of the night you will be asked to reveal the secrets of which you are most confident. Use your skills to observe the behaviour of your fellow guests – can you deduce the truths they hold close to their hearts?_

_At a quarter to midnight, you will be asked to state your conclusions._

_At midnight, the master of ceremonies will share the anonymous conclusions with the relevant parties._

Greg guessed this part was generic – every guest would have read the same. It was a little _Mission Impossible,_ but not entirely over the top. It was an interesting twist, that he’d get to know if anyone made any conclusions about him, presumably privately? It wasn’t entirely clear and he moved on. Below the first was another paragraph, starting with his name. This would be where the secret came into play.

_Greg, this evening you are working in a team with Mycroft Holmes. He has also been informed of this arrangement, but otherwise is it confidential._

_Your secret is that you do not have an individual secret. Do not share this with any other player, including your team mate._

_Best of luck._

Greg blinked, reading the card several times. When he glanced up Mycroft’s hands were folded before him. Greg assumed he’d already dropped his card in the black ‘information cards here please’ box beside the door. Clearly whomever organised this did not want anyone pickpocketed (or pickpocket _ing_ ).

“Okay then,” Greg said. He glanced over the card once more, locking in the key information. Dropping his card in the box, he smiled at Mycroft. “You ready?”

“I am,” Mycroft replied. “May the best man win.”

Greg grinned, leaning closer as Mycroft opened the door. “Seems we’re in it together, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Mycroft said. He followed Greg in, and they both stopped, surveying the room.

 _Ballroom_ was the term that first came to Greg’s mind, though it was much more intimate than the term might have suggest. Lavishly furnished with armchairs and a small dancefloor at one end, Greg was relieved to notice a bar tucked on the opposite side. Several people were already present, standing in a small group by the bar.

“Once more unto the breach,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg suppressed a smile. “Drink?” he offered, gesturing at the bar.

“Please,” Mycroft replied. “I do hope some kind of food will be served.”

“Me too,” Greg said. “Not sure I can drink for the next four hours and still do this observation thing with any certainty.”

“Nor I,” Mycroft said.

They approached the bar, Greg ordering a beer and Mycroft a glass of wine to start. They’d ended up at the far end of the room, and though Greg nodded at Molly and Anderson, he was unfamiliar with the others and wanted a moment to talk to Mycroft. He leaned on the bar, tilting his head to speak more quietly to Mycroft.

“So, do you think everyone here is playing?” he asked.

“As far as I am aware,” Mycroft replied.

“Do you recognise everyone?” Greg murmured. “I don’t think I know the brunette talking to Anderson, or the man beside her.”

“Amira and Walter work in my office,” Mycroft admitted, taking his wine.

“So they’re connected to you, are they?” Greg said with a grin. “That’s two points for you, then.”

“Yes, thank you,” Mycroft murmured, nodding at the entrance. “Is that your sister coming in?”

“Yes,” Greg said, surprised. “I thought she wasn’t coming.” He turned to hug her as she approached. “I thought you didn’t get an invite?”

“It arrived the next day,” she told him. “And it specifically said to keep it a surprise.”

Greg nodded. “Well you look amazing.”

Emily beamed. “Thank you!” She leaned in. “I’ve been put up at The Parkmore, and this dress was waiting, and someone came and did my hair and make-up.” She pulled back and twirled. “I feel like a princess!”

Greg felt his smile spread even wider at her excitement. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“What, miss this? Your chance to show off at an intrigue party?” She winked at Mycroft. “This one loved playing Clue. Always thought he could work it out before he’d actually seen the cards.”

“It was more like poker,” Greg told Mycroft. “Nobody in my house could keep a straight face.”

“I see,” Mycroft replied. He paused, then extended his hand. “Mycroft Holmes. Pleased to meet you.”

“Emily Lestrade,” she replied, taking his hand. “Greg’s sister.”

“The family resemblance is striking,” Mycroft told her.

“Well I’m going to get a drink,” Emily said. “I’ll talk to you later.” She leaned in again, her words only for Greg. “You look amazing, too.”

Mycroft obviously heard her, and his eyes lingered on Greg as he watched her walk away. “She noticed your tuxedo.”

“She did,” Greg replied. “It’s a pretty big change.”

Mycroft nodded. “She’s not a player.”

“What?” Greg said, turning to meet Mycroft’s eyes. “What do you mean?”

“She said, ‘your chance to show off’,” Mycroft replied. “I would suggest her invitation was to watch the intrigue play out, rather than to take part.”

“Right,” Greg said. “I didn’t even notice.”

“Players in a team are rarely evenly matched,” Mycroft replied smoothly, and it took Greg a couple of seconds to make sense of the words.

“Hey,” he protested, though a smile tugged at his mouth when he saw the tease in Mycroft’s eyes. “She’s my sister. I was surprised she’s here.”

“No excuses,” Mycroft said. “I intend us to win.” He turned, a slight smile prefacing, “Don’t let me down, Detective Inspector.”

Greg was breathless for a second, smile fading before coming back in force. “Professional pride on the line.” He nodded towards Anderson who was flirting hard with Amira. “Especially over Anderson.”

“Agreed,” Mycroft replied. He shook his head in a show of mock severity. “How would you ever walk back into your office if Anderson bested you tonight?”

“Couldn’t,” Greg replied. “Have to take my excellent tuxedo and…” he shrugged. “I dunno, what do people with excellent tuxedos do for a living?”

“Be James Bond?” Mycroft replied. “Or the main character from Mission Impossible. That seemed to inspire the comments on our cards.”

Greg grinned. _Of course he noticed._ “That’s more your line of work, I think.”

Mycroft tilted his head. “What would you do if you were to leave the police force?” he asked.

“Is this part of the game?” Greg asked. He suddenly remembered that although he and Mycroft were a team, he technically had a secret from Mycroft. Did it work the other way around, too? Such personal, hypothetical question was very unlike Mycroft.

_Is this him playing a part tonight?_

“Not at all,” Mycroft said, eyes guileless. “The question arose in my mind so I put it to you.”

Greg nodded, taking a sip of his beer. He was still a bit surprised, but considered the question. “Do you mean if I left now, or if I hadn’t joined the force in the first place?” he asked.

“Should you leave tomorrow,” Mycroft replied, “though I would be interested in either answer.”

Greg shot him a suspicious look, but answered anyway. “If I hadn’t joined the force I’d probably be in jail,” he said. Mycroft nodded, not asking, though his eyes searched Greg for further clues. “I was running with a pretty bad crowd,” he said. It was a long time since he’d thought about this. “They were stealing cars, getting in fights, generally being a public nuisance. I didn’t really have any direction or anything, and it was something to do. Then Emily got pregnant, and my dad died the same week,” he shrugged. “I had to do something to get us out of there. It hadn’t seemed to matter if I ended up in jail before that.”

“Or dead,” Mycroft said quietly.

“We were never gonna die,” Greg said. “That was something that happened to other people.”

Mycroft nodded, not breaking the silence. Greg appreciated he didn’t say anything. People always did, the few times he mentioned this, some trite phrase about the ideals of youth or something. As if he couldn’t look back and see how naïve they all were.

“Anyway, the day after dad died, I signed up,” Greg said, pulling himself back to the conversation. “Went in right away, started sending money back to mum and Em so they could get by until I graduated.”

“An admirable motivation,” Mycroft said. “Do you regret such a decision?”

Greg looked at him. “What is with you tonight?” he asked, unable to stop himself.

“I beg your pardon?”

“This is not like you,” Greg said. “All the questions? Asking how I feel about stuff?”

Mycroft looked down, easing his wine glass in a circle. “I apologise,” he began, but Greg interrupted him, one hand on Mycroft’s forearm stopping the words in their tracks.

“No, don’t,” Greg said. “Sorry, it’s just,” he waved one hand, deliberately keeping it from returning to Mycroft’s sleeve. “I think this has got me on edge.”

“It is an unusual evening,” Mycroft agreed. “Do not feel obliged to answer any of my questions.”

“I don’t mind,” Greg replied. He cast his mind back. “Um, if I left the force now? I have no idea what I’d do.” He grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “Maybe hit you up for a job. I could be a good driver, Mister Holmes sir.”

Mycroft gave him a disbelieving look. “You have a range of highly sought after skills, Gregory,” he said.

“I do?” Greg said with a grin. “Do go on.”

“I would strongly recommend you for a position in Her Majesty’s service,” Mycroft said. “Without reservation.”

“Without reservation?” Greg repeated. _Holy shit_. “But you’re just a civil servant, Mycroft. What weight could your word possibly hold?”

They were grinning at each other – well, Greg was grinning, Mycroft was offering a smile he was trying hard to make look reluctant – when Emily returned.

“Come on,” she said. “Introduce me around.”

Greg nodded, and she tucked her hand into his arm.

“Come on Mycroft,” she added, chivvying him along, her glass of champagne at his back. “Let’s go be polite.”

Greg found himself sharing a look with Mycroft as they walked.

_This could be a lot of fun. Provided I can remember there’s a point to all this._


	3. Chapter 3

“Emily Lestrade,” Mycroft said, as the approached the group standing at the other end of the bar. “May I introduce Molly Hooper, Philip Anderson, Amira Sukaar and Walter Tviet.”

A chorus of hellos greeted them, and Emily waved at the group.

“I presume you’ve all otherwise met,” Mycroft said, “though Amira and Walter, I believe you have not met Gregory in person.”

“You’d be either drivers or surveillance,” Greg said with a grin, shaking their hands. “Don’t feel like you need to confirm either of those, of course.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Walter said, smile beaming out from under his neatly trimmed beard. “Strange night, isn’t it?”

“It’s exciting!” Molly exclaimed, grinning at Greg. “Everybody with a secret, it’s like being in a game of Clue!”

“I hope nobody is slated to be the corpse,” Anderson said moodily. He threw back the rest of his drink and headed over to the bar.

“I think he was hoping we’d be working in teams,” Molly said, half apologetic, half conspiratorial.

“Pairs,” Amira corrected with a smile. “He was hoping to work with one of the ladies, I believe he said.”

“How disappointing his wife couldn’t make it,” Greg took it upon himself to say.

Amira shot him an amused glance. “Yes, that was clear,” she said. She glanced around. “So, how many people do you think we’re expecting tonight?”

“Well, Sally’s not here yet,” Greg started, “or Sherlock and John.”

“No doubt waiting to make a dramatic entrance,” Mycroft added with a strained grin.

“John will keep him on track,” Greg murmured, lifting his glass to his lips to hide some of what he said. “Besides, if he works out who’s behind this at least we’ll know.”

“Oh, Sally’s coming?” Emily exclaimed at the same time as Greg spoke to Mycroft. “I’m looking forward to meeting her!”

Mycroft raised his eyebrow, allowing Molly to take up the conversation with Emily as he addressed Greg. “I hope you’re not intimating my brother might solve this before I do.”

Greg opened his mouth to reply but stopped, studying Mycroft’s expression. His words might once have carried a more serious note, but tonight there was a sparkle in his eye, a tease around his mouth that told Greg he was not genuinely upset at the idea.

From anyone else Greg would have thought it was flirting.

_Tonight’s like Cinderella. Not real, everyone playing a part._

_Why shouldn’t I play this part?_

“Yes, I am,” Greg said simply, allowing his mouth to turn up, amusement in his tone. “He’s far more annoyed about this whole secret thing than you are.”

Mycroft’s eyebrow rose, and Greg’s breath caught in his throat as he waited for the response. “I suppose we will have to see what happens come midnight.” He took a sip of his wine, eyes still locked on Greg’s. “It will be interesting indeed to match behaviour with assigned secrets.”

Greg’s mind froze and by the time he was ready to reply Mycroft had turned back to the conversation, listening politely as Molly explained to Emily who was who from Scotland Yard. He drank from his beer absently, smiling when the rest of the group did, but his brain was working overtime. He’d almost forgotten why they were here. This was an intrigue party, and everyone had a secret.

Even him. Kind of. But if he had a secret he was sharing with Mycroft – that they were working in a team – and he had another secret Mycroft didn’t know about, how likely was it that Mycroft also had a secret he was instructed to keep from Greg?

Something that would change his behaviour this evening, which Greg had already seen. He was far more sociable. Interested in Greg’s thoughts about things in a way Greg had never experienced. Was it part of Mycroft’s secret? They did have to work together, and that would be an easy secret, as far as Greg could tell. They’d end up spending half the night talking together. So that secret was kind of hard to hide, which was fine. Would everyone else assume that was their only secret? And if Greg had two – technically, at least – that made it more likely other people also had two.

Unless it was a double blind.

Frowning, Greg turned away from the group. Working through it was impossible without more information about the person organising this. He took a couple of steps down the bar, watching the group interact. Anthea had arrived without him noticing, and she raised her glass when he met her eyes. He did the same, not inviting her over, hoping to get his brain into some kind of shape before he returned. Why was he taking this so seriously? It was a game, no more, and even if the worst happened and Anderson beat him, it was hardly the end of the world.

“Greg?” Emily’s voice broke in. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, forcing a grin for his sister. “Just trying to get my head straight.”

“It’s a lot of possibilities,” she agreed. “I’m sure you’ll do great.”

“Thanks,” Greg replied. “So are you a player?”

Emily grinned at him. “How well do I play poker, Greg?” she asked. “Tommy’s been beating me since he was seven years old. I can’t lie to save myself, you know that.”

“Learned from the best,” Greg replied with a more genuine grin. “How is that nephew of mine?”

“Fine,” Emily said. “Starts his last rotation this month, I can hardly believe it.”

“And he’s still chasing the orthopaedics place at Bart’s?” Greg asked.

“We’ll hear any day now,” she replied. “Thanks again for putting that good word in.”

“It wasn’t me,” Greg replied. “Actually John’ll be here tonight, you can thank him yourself.”

Emily smiled. “But you’re the one who knows John,” she said. “So I’m thanking you as well.”

“No problem,” Greg told her. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say. His mind really was still on the other problem from tonight.

“I’ll leave you to your thoughts,” Emily said, taking a new drink from the bar.

“You alright on your own?” Greg asked.

“Of course,” she replied, and Greg remembered how she ran into school on her first day, barely sparing a wave for their mother as she greeted the other students for the first time.

“Of course,” he murmured.

Greg watched the room for a few moments, wondering what kind of secrets others might have been asked to keep tonight. It was harder for the people he didn’t know; there was no baseline for their behaviour with each other. He guessed that was why there were a range of people here. They could watch each other, essentially, and each person only needed to make one statement at the end, about one person. Unless they were in an unofficial competition with Anderson, of course, but realistically Greg knew it was unlikely he’d lose to someone so heavily invested in drinking and flirting.

“A penny for them,” Mycroft said, coming to stand beside Greg.

“Just wondering what kind of secrets people are carrying tonight,” Greg replied. It sounded a bit morose when he put it like that, but Mycroft didn’t seem to mind.

“There are always secrets,” Mycroft replied, surveying the room. “The trick tonight will be working out which are real and which are not.”

Greg nodded. That kind of comment was more common from Sherlock than Mycroft, at least in his experience. He tried to work out why it felt more like Sherlock, and realised it was in how it made him feel. Like the person saying it was smarter than him – which wasn’t a problem – but that they held their intellect with weary hands.

With Sherlock, Greg would have rolled his eyes and called him dramatic.

From Mycroft it felt more genuinely introspective.

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter too much whether everyone is here because they’re connected to you or to me,” Greg said. “We’re working together, and between us we know everyone that’s here, so,” he shrugged. No need to finish that sentence properly.

Mycroft didn’t reply, instead drinking as he looked over the room. They’d separated into pairs and trios now, some jazzy background music and a drink or two allowing everyone to relax a little. Greg could see John and Sherlock and wondered what John had done to convince Sherlock to enter without making a scene. Not that it really mattered, Sherlock was obviously in work mode, and Greg could see John’s smile was already fixed.

He turned to the bartender. “Pint of IPA, please,” he said.

“Another?” Mycroft said, glancing at the second pint in Greg’s hand.

“This one’s for John,” Greg said. “He looks stressed already.”

“Ah,” Mycroft replied. He drained the last of his wine and turned to the bar, ostensibly to drop his glass but actually to say, “I’ll go and speak with my brother. He’ll be working hard to find out anything we know, so we must be careful.”  
“Of course,” Greg replied. He couldn’t help adding, “Should we synchronise our watches, or will the smoke signals be enough?”

Mycroft turned his head enough to give Greg an exasperated glance before he strode off to meet with his brother. Greg grinned and crossed the room to hand John his pint.

“You’re a lifesaver,” John said, downing a good third of the pint in one go. “Pour me into a taxi at the end of the night if you need to, alright?”

“No problem,” Greg replied. He nodded at Sherlock, who looked almost manic as he spoke with his brother. “How’s that going?”

“He’s barely eaten or slept since the invitation came in,” John replied. He leaned in, glancing around as though sharing something private. “I can’t tell you what was on our cards, but just wait…”

“John!” Sherlock’s voice shot across the room. He abandoned his brother, eyes boring into Greg’s before sweeping down and back up again. “We are not to disclose the information on our cards, remember?”

“He wasn’t, Sherlock,” Greg told him. “Good to see you, by the way. You’re not high, I hope?”

Sherlock stared back, open mouthed, before heading for the bar.

“Thanks, mate,” John muttered.

“Sorry,” Greg said with questionable sincerity. “Look, do you have any idea who’s organised all this?”

“Nope,” John replied. “But Harry wasn’t invited, and neither was Mrs. Hudson, Angelo, or any of the homeless network. So we’re pretty sure it doesn’t have anything to do with Sherlock. Or me.”

Greg nodded, clapping one hand on his friend’s shoulder as he followed Sherlock to the bar. A fairly intense conversation started before Sherlock dragged John to the far end of the bar to continue it. A fleeting idea crossed Greg’s mind and he wondered if those two were working in a team, too. There was a good chance Sherlock would flout the rules if it suited him, but the force of their conversation had not abated and Greg knew John tended to play by the book, even if it irritated Sherlock. Thoughtfully, he finished his beer, deciding to hit the water for a while. He was going to need his brain in working order if he stood a chance this evening.

Glancing across the room, Greg saw Mycroft taking a seat in an armchair. Several trays of finger food had appeared around the room, and Greg immediately headed to the bar for two glasses of water before taking the seat between Mycroft and the food.

“Starving,” he explained when he passed the water to Mycroft but turned to the food. It was a convenient seating arrangement; nobody could sit close, but people would move into speaking range as they approached the cheese board to Greg’s right. “Wow, that soft cheese is amazing.” He pointed to it. “Mycroft?”

“No thank you,” Mycroft replied. “Perhaps a little later.” He raised his glass of water. “Thank you for the water. Very considerate.”

Greg grinned. “So any word from your brother?” he asked, easing a little closer and trying to pitch his voice to travel to Mycroft and no further.

“No,” Mycroft replied, his eyes on Greg. “He is somewhat distressed at not being able to work it out.”

“I know the feeling,” Greg said with a smile. “Seems to be going around.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft said.

“Do you think he and John are working together?” Greg asked. “Is that their secret?”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft said, and they both turned to look at the detective and his flatmate, still talking at the far end of the bar. “It will be difficult to tell. In his current state I imagine John is feeling particularly vigilant.”

Greg nodded. “He hates things like this,” he told Mycroft. “The unknown element affects his PTSD.”

“And yet,” Mycroft murmured.

“Sherlock,” Greg replied. “I don’t know. I think that’s different.”

“How so?” Mycroft asked.

Greg considered the question, taking another sliver of cheese, chewing as he thought. He could feel Mycroft waiting, but there was no impatience as there might have been from someone else. He was happy for Greg to take his time before answering. It felt considerate. No, that wasn’t the right word. More than considerate. Kind?

Greg shook his head, stopping the search for that word. Instead he focussed on the original question.

“I don’t know what happened right at the start,” Greg said, “John’s kind of told me, but I get the impression there’s a lot he’s leaving out. But he and Sherlock clicked. Something in him is protective, but he also knows Sherlock wouldn’t endanger his safety without weighing up the risks.” He shrugged, meeting Mycroft’s eyes. “They trust each other. A lot. And if Sherlock can’t work this out, it makes John uncomfortable, because Sherlock can’t make a calculated decision about what’s safe.”

Mycroft nodded, eyes still watching Greg. He sat back, seeking out his brother again, watching him with John. “That is a very astute summary of a complex dynamic,” he said quietly.

“More than just a pretty face,” Greg said without thinking, then winced at the corny line.

“Indeed you are,” Mycroft replied without a trace of sarcasm.

The surprise must have been visible on his face; whatever Greg expected from Mycroft, it was nothing so sincere. Something light-hearted or sarcastic, perhaps, but not this steady gaze and quiet words. Greg cast around for something to say, hoping the not-quite-bright-lighting hid the colour change that surely accompanied the flush of heat in his cheeks. Mycroft just kept looking at him, as though his discomfort was fascinating.

“Well maybe you could get me a job doing that if I quit the force,” Greg said finally. “Besides, I do have the suit.”

Mycroft nodded. Before he could answer, Greg realised someone was standing on the other side of the cheese board.

“You’re thinking of leaving the force?” Molly said, eyebrows raised.

“No,” Greg replied, _knowing_ his face was now flaming. “Just a conversation we had earlier.”

“Oh, okay,” Molly said brightly, beaming at them both before wandering off.

Greg watched her go for a second before risking looking at Mycroft. He was frowning, clearly not as familiar with Molly as Greg was. Sympathetic, he leaned in just in time to hear Mycroft’s slightly bewildered question.

“Do you think she believes that?”

“Yep,” Greg replied. “Molly is lovely, but subterfuge is not exactly her thing.”

“Even here?” Mycroft replied, raising one eyebrow.

“Even here,” Greg agreed. “Even when she’s supposed to be looking for liars.”

When he looked to Molly and back at Mycroft something about it was so ridiculous he couldn’t help bursting into giggles. It didn’t help that Mycroft was clearly withholding his own mirth; Greg could see his shoulders shaking and he instinctively turned inwards, hoping their private joke wasn’t being observed by too many other people.

“Well this looks subtle,” Greg murmured.

“I’m sure nobody has noticed,” Mycroft replied.

“Well either way, I should go and talk to some people,” Greg said. “See what I can see.”

“I will do the same,” Mycroft replied. “Shall we meet back here?”

“Yep,” Greg said. They stood, both looking out over the room, deciding in which direction they should move. “Don’t forget to have something to eat,” Greg said, a little distracted when he saw his sister flirting with Anderson. That was definitely where he was heading first.


	4. Chapter 4

The next hour passed readily enough. Everyone seemed to be getting into the evening, asking questions and making thoughtful expressions as they listened. There was a lot of spontaneous laughter, and Greg had more than one person flat out ask him what his secret was. Anderson pouted, and Emily pulled the sibling card until he pointed out that he didn’t even believe she was playing.

“But I’m your sister,” she protested. Her face brightened. “I could be on your team!”

“No thank you,” Greg replied. “My team is entirely full.”

“Oh, so you do have a team,” Emily said, eyes sparkling.

Greg sighed theatrically, berating himself for letting that slip. “I’m guessing you think there are teams, then?” he said, hoping to deflect attention. “Are you asking everyone if they’re on a team, then?”

“Pretty much,” she admitted. She pointed out several people. “I think those two are on a team,” she said, pointing at Amira and Walter, “and John and Sherlock appear to be talking a lot, but I could tell John’s not telling Sherlock anything and it’s annoying him. So that’s less of a team and more of a couple, if you know what I mean.”

“Not bad,” Greg said, grinning at her. “You do know that Amira and Walter only know each other, and they both work in intelligence, so it’s not surprising they’re talking more to each other than anyone else.”

“They both know Anthea, and Mycroft,” Emily said, “but you and Mycroft are thick as thieves, and Anthea’s floating around between almost everyone. I’m pretty sure she’s keeping notes, the amount of time she’s spending on her Blackberry.”

Greg laughed, but he was genuinely impressed with his sister’s observations. “It’s a parent thing,” she told him. “You get pretty good at reading kids across a playground, or parents across a soccer pitch.”

“Fair enough,” Greg said, relieved she hadn’t pushed on the ‘you and Mycroft are thick as thieves’ part of their conversation. That would be more difficult to explain.

“Oh, there are waiters with food!” Emily exclaimed. “I’m going to get something to eat.”

Greg followed her and allowed himself to be drawn into conversation with Anthea, a singularly odd experience given she generally spoke to him while sitting in the back of a poorly lit town car.

_Her eyes are darker brown than I’d expected._

“Hi,” Greg said in response to her greeting. “Enjoying the evening?”

“I am,” Anthea said with a vague sense of surprise. “It will be interesting to see what people think at the end.”

“Is that what’s happening?” Greg asked, trying to remember what was on his card. He couldn’t quite recall except that there was some confusion in his head about exactly what was happening at midnight. Maybe he should go a bit easier on the beer.

“I didn’t really read my card,” Anthea confided, leaning closer. “But someone told me they’re sharing everyone’s guesses.” She shrugged. “I assumed it would be kind of a public announcement.”

“Right,” Greg replied, unease pooling in his stomach at the idea. “Well, I guess we’ll find out.”

Grateful for his empty water glass, Greg ended the conversation to go back to the bar, opting for a half this time. Anthea’s suggestion that everyone would know what everyone else’s guesses were was not something he was entirely comfortable with. So many people here were trained to see what others were hiding, and he wasn’t sure he really wanted anyone accidentally revealing anything he didn’t want seen.

_You and Mycroft are thick as thieves…_

Shaking his head, Greg thanked the bartender and glanced around. The mix of people was interesting now; everyone had talked to those with whom they were most comfortable and had moved onto others, apparently determined to see what they could find out. The idea of the intrigue party was clever. It encouraged people to speak with each other, and Greg saw Molly and Amira chatting on one side of the room while Mycroft and Anderson stood close enough to be speaking, though it appeared Anderson was largely doing the speaking, relegating Mycroft to the role of listener. From his expression, guarded though it was, Greg thought Mycroft looked both bored and irritated. Hardly an uncommon reaction to Anderson, Greg thought unkindly, then berated himself. _Be nice._

With a small smile, Greg eased himself into Mycroft’s line of view and raised his drink and his eyebrows, asking the question. When Mycroft drained the rest of his wine in response, Greg ordered another and moved over to the armchairs, leaving the wine on the bar. Emily and Walter were engaged in conversation about something with Sally, and John and Sherlock surveyed the room from the chairs in which Greg and Mycroft had originally sat, which left only the sofa.

Greg sat at one end, waiting for Mycroft to join him. He was trying to be discreet but watching Mycroft extract himself from Anderson and collect his wine was too interesting to ignore. Anderson managed to look annoyed, and for half a second Greg wondered if he would come and try and talk to him, but Mycroft appeared instead. Dropping into the other end of the sofa, he took a long drink of his wine, enough for Greg to note Anderson bearing down on Anthea with a determined air.

“I sort of feel like I should rescue her,” Greg murmured.

“I think she would find than more offensive than if you left her alone,” Mycroft replied. “She is more than capable of dealing with the likes of Anderson.”

“How was your conversation with him?” Greg asked. “From what I could see it was enthralling.”

Mycroft shot him a look and Greg grinned into his water. “Hardly,” Mycroft replied. “Without knowing his background I have two ideas, one more likely than the other.”

“Okay,” Greg replied. “What are they?”

“I would venture his secret revolves around an unrequited love for Ms. Donovan.”

“I wouldn’t say that was tonight’s secret,” Greg replied. “Or any kind of secret, really.”

“A less likely choice in this circumstance,” Mycroft allowed. “In that case his secret is certainly links with a drug smuggling ring.”

“Seriously?” Greg asked.

“His attempts to drop hints were clumsy at best,” Mycroft replied.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Do you think he’s working alone?”

“I do,” Mycroft replied. “He has not spent significant time with any other person and given how hard he is trying to share information, particularly with the women, he suspects other people are on teams and this triggers his poor self-esteem.”

“Jesus,” Greg muttered. “Okay, is that one you’re sure of? We only need one, right?”

“One would be the minimum,” Mycroft said, “though I see it as a point of professional pride to deduce as many secrets as possible this evening.”

The words made Greg shiver at the thought Mycroft might find out one in particular, but he held it to himself.

“Okay,” he said, “well here’s what I know.”

They talked in low voices for a while, Greg conscious his body language shouldn’t give too much away. He made sure Mycroft ate when the waiter came around, snaring a side plate and making sure the tempura vegetables came back a second time, as it was the only thing Mycroft had consented to eat.

“Maybe your secret is you’re vegetarian tonight,” Greg said with a grin, downing a piece of salmon nigari. “You’re missing out, Mycroft.”

“As I mentioned earlier, I ate before we left home,” Mycroft said. He ate the last piece of tempura on his plate, touching his napkin to his lips. “I must have underestimated how necessary wine would be to endure this evening.”

“Fair enough,” Greg said. He glanced at his watch. “Only an hour to go,” he said. “Did you talk to your brother again?”

“I did,” Mycroft replied. His tone was dry as he added, “His gloating was fairly extensive.”

“He’s worked it out?” Greg asked, eyebrows raised. “That must be a relief.”

“A relief?” Mycroft echoed, looking confused.

“Yeah, I mean he was pretty upset earlier,” Greg said. “At least now he’s calmer, right?”

“True,” Mycroft said thoughtfully. He studied Greg briefly, and the speed with which he shifted his gaze away made Greg wonder why he acted so fast. “Not how I have considered the news.”

“Really?” Greg said, pushing away the flutter of a question. “What did you think?”

“That he will be holding this over my head indefinitely,” Mycroft said dryly.

“Well yeah, he’ll be doing the same to me,” Greg replied.

“So we find ourselves in the same position, from that respect,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “I bet John’s feeling better too?”

“Yes and no,” Mycroft replied. “Sherlock’s figured out the who, but not the why. Hence, my brother is calmer but not entirely placated.”

“Right,” Greg said. He looked over to where John and Sherlock were sitting. John looked far calmer, people watching as Sherlock, curled up smaller than a man with such long legs should be able to do, closed his eyes. John saw him looking, and they raised their glasses to each other.

“So in summary, we have a pretty good idea of most people’s secrets,” Greg said, leaning sideways a little.

Mycroft looked at him, a slow smile growing as he did so. “Yes,” he replied, “ _we_ do.”

“Really?” Greg said, turning to meet Mycroft’s eyes. Why did that amusement feel so warm as it wrapped around him? “You think you’ve contributed more to this than I have?”

“Rarely evenly matched,” Mycroft reminded him, the smile on his face broadening.

“Right,” Greg said. There was still something hovering around the edges of Mycroft’s expression, and something kept him there, trying to read it. There was a vague notion in the back of his mind that he should look away, but Greg couldn’t be the one to break their connection. Mycroft was holding his gaze, and when the moment came, Greg might have missed it if he wasn’t concentrating so hard on trying to decipher his expression.

Mycroft’s gaze flicked to Greg’s mouth and back up.

The action itself took a fraction of a second, but the aftermath was abrupt.

Greg’s jaw loosened, his mouth dropping open.

Mycroft sat up straighter – if that was even possible – cleared his throat and looked away, his face rapidly turning a decidedly pinker shade than usual.

Greg felt his own spine straighten, and his eyes darted around, unable to settle on anything. He looked across the room, his brain screaming that surely the world had tipped on its axis, why had nobody else noticed? They flicked to Mycroft, who was doing the same, and guilty fear filled the grey eyes.

_Is he afraid of me? Or of what I saw?_

Greg was shell shocked, and whatever Mycroft said before he stood and strode away, Greg had no idea. His brain was reeling. If Mycroft hadn’t reacted, Greg would be questioning if the moment had even happened. Surely it was his own desires projecting onto real life? But something had happened and Mycroft revealed a detail he was not intending to show.

_He wanted to kiss me._

Was it real?

That was the frustrating thing. If this had happened at any other party, or social gathering, or even a night spent at Mycroft’s club, the options would be easier. They would both know Greg knew Mycroft had entertained the idea of kissing him, however briefly, and their behaviour would have taken a familiar turn. Ignore it, allow things to get awkward and pray never to run into each other at Tesco (unlikely in this specific circumstance), or address it and see what happened. Greg had previously taken the second option and still ended up changing his Tesco, but at least he wasn’t still questioning his judgement (that time he’d had a sesame seed distractingly stuck to his lip. Very awkward afterwards).

But tonight Greg couldn’t tell if Mycroft was acting or not. He was a master at it, of course, and he would have planned out his whole night beforehand.

_We only knew our secrets once we’d arrived at the venue._

Greg felt like he was having a conversation in his own head. Groaning, he addressed the idea his subconscious had just pointed out. Nobody’s mind moved as fast as Mycroft’s. And he’d started the unusual conversation about how Greg felt right after, when they were standing at the bar It was not implausible that he would have come up with a plan in the few minutes between reading his card and arriving at the bar.

_But that means his secret is that he has a thing for me._

Greg didn’t know how subtle Mycroft was trying to be, but this was the first firm indication he’d had all night. And from what he could see, he was the only one who’d actually seen it. There was no overt flirting, no ‘accidental’ touching, nothing that indicated anything other than two people on a team, working towards a common goal. Was Mycroft really that bad at flirting that he’d tried all night, only to finally get a reaction?

_His reaction just now was pretty extreme._

He certainly didn’t behave like someone who was glad to finally get their message across, as Greg would assume he would do if this was part of the game. Surely he wanted Greg to be able to read him? They’d just talked about whether Mycroft or Greg had spotted more secrets, too – was this Mycroft’s way of offering him a freebie? But what would be the point, if he hadn’t shown it to anyone else?

Greg’s brain was whirling, and he wondered briefly if this was how Sherlock’s brain usually functioned. He wished he could curl up in this chair and close his eyes to concentrate, too, but he was definitely not that bendy, and besides he’d ruin his new tuxedo.

“Hey, Greg,” John said, sitting down on the other end of the sofa. When had Mycroft moved? Disconcerted, Greg blinked at John. “Looks like you might be ready for another.” He placed a new pint on the coaster in front of Greg.

“Thanks,” Greg replied. He was due for another, especially in light of the past few minutes. He picked up the glass and drank deeply.

“What happened?” John asked. “Mycroft took off pretty fast. Work?”

“How’s Sherlock?” Greg replied, knowing he wasn’t answering. He and John had a rhythm, though, and they both knew he’d get around to answering the Mycroft question when he was ready.

“Better,” John said. “He reckons he’s worked out who is doing this, but not why.”

“And that makes him feel better,” Greg replied.

“In the scheme of things, yes,” John said. “I also spiked his drink with something, so that’s helped.”

Greg snorted. “Of course you did,” he said. “And you’re keeping an eye on him?”

“Of course,” John said. “He’s under direct medical supervision.”

“But he’s okay,” Greg asked.

“Yeah,” John said.

“Made any progress on the secrets?” Greg asked with a forced casual air.

“There’s a couple I think I might have worked out,” John said, nodding. “Harder to know with the people I don’t know that well.”

Greg nodded. “You don’t have to tell me what,” he said, “but who do you think you’re on to?”

John raised his eyebrows. “We’re skirting awfully close to the boundaries,” he said with a grin. “Okay.” He looked around the room to jog his memory. “Anderson, Emily, Sherlock, you and Mycroft, I’m ninety percent sure. No idea about Walter and Amira, and Molly keeps avoiding me, probably because Sherlock’s right there and she tends to blurt things out.”

Greg nodded, impressed. “You reckon you’ve got Emily?” he said.

“Yeah,” John said, “but I’m not telling you.”

“She’s single, you know,” Greg said with a grin.

“That makes one of us,” John shot back.

“Really?” Greg asked. He hadn’t been expecting confirmation of what was going on with Sherlock but he was more than happy for the conversation to move further away from this evening.

“It’s complicated,” John replied, and Greg raised his eyebrows. That wasn’t surprising if it really was to do with Sherlock, and if John wasn’t ready to share, he wouldn’t. But still, interesting. His sister was better at this than he gave her credit for.

“Fair enough,” Greg replied. They’d get to it when John was ready.

“So, Mycroft,” John said again. “What happened?”

“I don’t really know,” Greg said, choosing his words carefully and knowing John could see it. “We were talking, he must have seen something, he bolted.”

“Interesting summary,” John said lightly. “Seems to be leaving out a fair bit.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied, “summaries do.”

John nodded, and Greg wondered if he was going to say anything more concrete, but instead he bought his glass closer so Greg could touch the rim of his to John’s. “Cheers,” he said, and Greg smiled.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching people and finishing their drinks. Greg finally spotted Mycroft sitting on the far side of the room, almost invisible behind a large plant. He appeared to be alone, and Greg wanted to go and speak with him, but he didn’t want to push anything. Right now there were a bunch of complicating factors and the last thing he wanted to do was mess up something that could be something. Assuming he was reading it right. Which he may not be doing.

_What a fucking mess._

“Greg,” John nudged him and Greg realised he’d really zoned out.

“Yeah,” Greg said, taking a deep breath. He blinked, but John was nodding at someone standing in front of them. “Right, sorry.”

It was one of the waiters offering Greg a fancy card and a fountain pen, of all things. “If you would write the secrets of which you are most sure here please, Detective Inspector.”

“Sure,” Greg said. He took the card and unfolded it, but his pen hesitated over the page. Glancing around he could see everyone else was doing the same; some writing, some thinking, one poor waitress trying to convince Sherlock to take the card in the first place.

“Better go and help with that,” John said, taking his card and pen over to sit near Sherlock.

Now that he was here, Greg had no idea what he was going to say. He wasn’t sure of anything, his observations seeming ridiculous. Mycroft had told him some things, but they weren’t Greg’s deductions, and from what he could see Mycroft also held a card and a pen. Were they doing this separately, then? If that was the case, he really should use his own observations, right?

“When you’re ready, Detective Inspector,” the waiter said.

Greg nodded and wrote the first thing that came to his mind.

The second the waiter took it away he regretted it.

_Should have said something else._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since everyone hated the last cliffhanger, perhaps you'll think this is a better place to stop and take a breath...

He smiled briefly when the waiter thanked him, but nerves dragged it from his face. From what he could see everyone was done, and the atmosphere was anxious. A few people stood up and made for the bar, their simultaneous movement breaking the tension as they laughed. Chatter broke out and soon the anxiety melted into excitement. Greg watched, wondering if people were talking about what they’d said on their cards. He was wondering how they’d be distributed as he lifted his glass, finding it empty.

_Jesus, I can’t do this without a drink in my hand._

Greg stood and focussed on the bar, making sure he was avoiding everyone’s eyes until he spoke to the bartender and had a Scotch in his hand. So much for the idea of taking it slow. At least now he had something on which to focus. Small talk was hardly something he wanted to engage in right now. Not when he was so increasingly sure he’d made a mistake.

“So, what’d you write?” Emily asked, appearing beside Greg.

“Um, what’d you write?” Greg responded, forcing himself to smile at her.

Emily’s face broke into a grin. “When did you know I was playing?” she asked without surprise.

“A while ago,” Greg told her, a grin to match her spreading over his face. “You are terrible at poker, remember?”

“Had to have a strategy,” Emily replied. “I figured it wouldn’t fool everyone, but it might work.”

“You had a good time,” Greg said. “I’m glad.”

“Me too,” Emily replied. “Haven’t had a night down here in a long time.”

Greg steered their conversation back towards Emily, feeling guilty he was so behind on what was happening with her life. As she talked about her son and his apparent multitude of girl-friends, Greg’s eyes wandered. From here he had a clear view behind the plant that had obscured Mycroft earlier. He was still sitting in the same place, face calm yet posture a little straighter than might be strictly comfortable.

_He’s uncomfortable sitting there on his own._

“Excuse me,” Greg told his sister. He turned to the bartender and asked for another glass of wine, taking it carefully across the room and placing in on Mycroft’s table. “Mind if I join you?” Greg asked hesitantly.

“Of course not,” Mycroft replied. His voice was polite but it was the kind of polite Greg recognised as Mycroft’s professional face.

_He does mind._

Greg didn’t sit down. “I don’t mind if you say no,” he said. “That was the point of asking. I don’t care if it’s rude or whatever.”

“Sit down, Gregory,” Mycroft said quietly, not meeting his eyes. Greg opened his mouth, but Mycroft beat him to it. “I must apologise for leaving so abruptly earlier,” he said, “and I must also ask a favour.”

“Okay,” Greg replied, his planned words failing as he waited for Mycroft to speak. If his heart beat any harder it might pop out of his chest, so he tried to control his breathing.

“If we might discuss that moment after the conclusion of this evening, I would be grateful for the postponement.”

“No problem,” Greg said. It didn’t slow his heart, knowing that Mycroft acknowledged there was something they needed to talk about, but at least it looked as though they would be addressing what happened. But not quite yet.

Without warning, the lights dimmed and the bartender came out from behind the bar, standing in the middle of the dancefloor. Greg turned towards the bartender, still very aware of Mycroft beside him.

“Good evening,” he said. “Your host sends their best regards and hopes you have enjoyed this evening of intrigue.”

There was a smattering of applause before the bartender continued. “Your responses have been collated and you may collect all the guesses that relate to you at the table by the door. It is up to you whether you confirm or deny your secret for this evening.” He indicated a large pin board that had appeared by the door. “Feel free to pin your secret to the board so that others might know how accurate their guesses were.” A wave of murmuring ran through the guests and showed no sign of slowing, so he raised his voice to conclude, “Thank you for coming, the bar closes in half an hour.”

The applause sounded again and as far as Greg could see, everyone headed for the door, eager to see what other people had guessed about them. Greg’s anxiety eased a little. The guesses wouldn’t be entirely public. He could keep whatever people thought about him private. At least that was something.

“I wonder how many people will reveal their secrets,” Greg murmured, his words for Mycroft alone.

“Most, I would say,” Mycroft replied, his eyes on the crowd around the pin board. “A sense of triumph will emerge when a secret is alluded to but not guessed.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. He was still wondering if Mycroft would know it was he who had written…what he’d written. “Looks like most people have their guesses.” He drained the rest of his glass in one go, a definite mistake but hardly his worst for the evening. “Want to come and check out the damage with me?”

Mycroft was still watching people, and Greg wasn’t sure he heard until he raised his wine glass, emptying it as fast as Greg had his own.

“Once more,” he murmured.

“Into the breach,” Greg finished with him.

They walked together, Greg very conscious of how much space there was between their shoulders. What a weird thing to notice, he thought as they approached the table. He opened his envelope to find a flat card with his name and secrets printed in large font – clearly to pin on the board, should he wish – and a single folded card, his name printed in the same script on the front.

_Only one person made a guess about me, that’s not bad._

From what he could see on the pin board, everyone had pinned up their secret. Greg shrugged and did the same, feeling people behind him pretend not to be interested in what he was doing. He moved away, allowing his card to be seen as he pulled free the folded card. Flicking it open, Greg gaped at the lines of text inside. Someone had typed out all the guesses relating to him and printed them in the same card – and there were a lot.

As his eyes ran down the list, Greg felt a complex mix of emotions rise in him, fast and hard.

_Greg and Mycroft are working together._

_Greg’s got a thing for Mycroft._

_Lestrade and Mycroft are secretly seeing each other._

_Mycroft and Greg are on the same team, and they’re definitely attracted to each other._

_Greg is totally in love with Mycroft!!! <3 <3 <3_

_Lestrade is attracted to Holmes._

Greg swallowed, trying to identify what was overwhelming him but it was too complicated and the only thing he could think was _panic._

What the heck was this? People thought he and Mycroft were seeing each other? Someone thought he was ‘totally in love’ with Mycroft? That one was certainly from Molly, nobody else here would put three love hearts on this kind of a document. Greg blinked at his card again, acutely aware of the buzz of people around him. When he dared to look up, he met a set of stricken grey eyes, just risen from a similar card. Greg would bet his pension it had a list just as long and damning on it.

Swallowing again, Greg glanced at the people around him. He was fairly sure it was the entire rest of the room standing in a semi-circle around he and Mycroft. The buzz died down as everyone waited, expectation heavy in the air. Someone had to say something, but all Greg could think were very short facts.

_They all thought I had a thing for Mycroft._

_They all thought Mycroft had a thing for me._

_They know it wasn’t my secret._

There was one piece of information missing, and Greg made himself look at the board, searching for Mycroft’s name. It was pinned beside his, and the words were both clear and familiar.

_Mycroft Holmes_

_\- working in a team with Gregory Lestrade_

_\- does not have an individual secret_

It was the same as Greg’s. They were working together but otherwise, nothing. What did that even mean? That people read too much into them working as a team? That they wanted to see more? Why would they want that? Why would people want…

“Greg?” Emily stepped forward, cautious as though she was trying to calm a skittish horse.

He nodded once, then again, and a third time, knowing if he opened his mouth something embarrassing would happen, and he wouldn’t do that to Mycroft. Without another word, Greg pulled open the door behind him and strode out of the ballroom. He had no idea if anyone followed him; the foyer was empty enough he could aim straight for the external door, bursting through into the cool night air. Left or right, it didn’t matter, and Greg turned blindly, walking as fast as he could, pulling air deeply into his lungs. His face was hot, chest fit to bursting before he slowed.

What the actual fuck was going on? Was that all part of the fun at the end? Clearly, everyone had read his secret, and read Mycroft’s and they wanted some kind of reaction after the guesses had been read. Were all those people in on this? Was that it? Greg ran his fingers through his hair then wiped one hand across his mouth, hardly able to think. He was pacing, he knew that; stopping his body was not an option right now. He wouldn’t get anywhere like this though, so he forced himself.

A deep breath, and Greg pressed his hands into the brick wall. He concentrated on the rough texture under his fingertips as he fought to slow his brain and separate the important questions.

_What was the point of this night?_

No.

_What did Mycroft have to say about this?_

That was far more important. The rest of the people in the room didn’t matter, not as much as Mycroft. Not as much as however Mycroft was going to react to _that_. If Greg was skirting the edges of panic, he couldn’t begin to think how Mycroft would be coping with such a violation of his privacy and trust. Pulling his concern away from himself helped Greg focus his energy. He needed to find Mycroft. They needed to talk, both about that moment before the waiters with the cards, and the end of the night. Greg had the impression it would rank pretty highly on his list of uncomfortable conversations, but there was no way he could do anything without resolving whatever was going on.

Glancing around, Greg realised he wasn’t exactly sure where he was. He’d walked hard and fast for goodness knew how long, and it was dark, in a neighbourhood he didn’t know well.

Reaching into his pockets, Greg frowned, then groaned. He remembered handing over his coat at the start of the night and blowing right past the concierge at the end; his coat was still there, containing his wallet, keys, phone, badge. He winced, knowing he’d be in hot water for letting so much personal documentation out of his sight if it went missing. More to the point right now, he had no way of getting home, or getting in even if he could get home. He had no choice but to find his way back to the hotel, which would be easier if he actually knew which direction to go or how to get there.

“Shit,” he muttered. The only other option he could think of was finding his way to the Yard and talking his way in. He could call someone from there, provided everyone hadn’t gone home. Hopefully someone would at least know the name of the hotel. Why hadn’t he noticed? Pretty terrible observational skills, he berated himself, looking both ways and pointing himself towards a major road. At least now he could admit to himself why he hadn’t noticed.

He’d been too busy semi-flirting with Mycroft. Well, enjoying his company, and looking forward to the evening, at least. It wasn’t flirting, but it would turn into flirting later; they’d both changed after entering the ballroom. Mycroft might have started it, asking the first personal question but Greg had hardly protested, and it had felt more and more comfortable as the night wore on.

Turning onto the street, Greg thought he had an idea where he was. Not too far from work, he tried to convince himself, though he wasn’t entirely sober and the cold had begun to seep in. The tuxedo was more about form than function, and he wished he’d stopped for his coat. That would solve all his problems. Well, most of them. He continued down the road, giving everyone coming the other way a wide berth. Some noticed his suit, but Greg paid them no mind. He just wanted to get home and figure out how he could make Mycroft talk to him. There was little hope, of course – Mycroft could disappear at will and there was no way Greg would be able to force him to do anything. But he had to try.

“Might I offer you your coat?”

Greg froze, turning to see a car parked a little behind him, Mycroft standing at the open door. He closed his eyes for a second. Didn’t even notice he was being followed, what kind of a rubbish detective was he?

“Thank you,” he said. Awkward as this was, having his coat would actually solve a bunch of his problems and he was willing to deal with this moment to get it back. Not to mention Mycroft was here and apparently prepared to talk on some level.

“Are you alright?” Greg asked as he reached for his coat. He kept his voice low, not wanting to spook Mycroft. This was the main question, the thing he most wanted to know, and he hoped against hope Mycroft wouldn’t lie to him. Not now.

“I am not entirely certain,” Mycroft said with surprising candor.

Greg’s eyebrows rose as he adjusted his coat, relieved at the warmth already being kept close to his body. “Okay,” he said cautiously. “I was hoping we might still talk.”

“As was I,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated. “Might I suggest we find somewhere more private?”

“Absolutely,” Greg said. He followed Mycroft into the car, neither speaking by mutual accord as the streetlights flashed past. The few quiet moments helped Greg settle his mind; by the time the car stopped he was able to follow Mycroft out without his hands shaking.


	6. Chapter 6

Greg assumed they were heading for the Diogenes Club, but instead they stood on a quiet street, row houses stretching in each direction. He didn’t speak, not wanting to ask a foolish question as he followed Mycroft up several steps. The security was unobtrusive but definite, and it wasn’t until they were inside, gleaming parquet floor beneath his feet, Greg blew out the breath he’d been holding.

“My home,” Mycroft said quietly. “Might I take your coat?”

“Thanks,” Greg replied, shedding it. He took his cue from Mycroft, following him into a kitchen that looked far better used than he would have expected.

“I will be taking tea,” Mycroft said, “though I can offer you a range of alcoholic beverages should you prefer.”

“Tea would be great,” Greg said. “I don’t need to drink any more tonight.”

“Nor I,” Mycroft replied.

Greg leaned back against the benchtop, staying out of the way as Mycroft set a tea tray. It was a curious mix of formal and informal, the large teapot and fine spoons jarring against heavy, wide mugs and the bottle of milk right from the fridge. It eased his tension, seeing Mycroft offer less formal hospitality, and by the time the tea was steeping in the pot, Greg’s shoulders were far more relaxed.

“Might we retire to the library?” Mycroft asked.

“Sure,” Greg replied, biting back his disbelief that someone had an actual library in their home. It turned out to be an accurate term, the walls of books justifying the title many times over. This was clearly somewhere Mycroft spent time, the reading corner arranged just so. Mycroft headed in a different direction, taking a seat on the sofa instead, the tea tray settling on the coffee table. He poured tea into both mugs, leaving Greg to doctor his own. The familiar movement was comforting and by the time he sat back with his fingers wrapped around the hot ceramic, Greg could meet Mycroft’s eyes.

“Did you work out who it was?” Greg asked. “That organised it tonight.”

“That depends,” Mycroft replied. “My brother believes I did not, and I wish him to maintain that belief.”

“Okay,” Greg said. “I can keep a secret.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow but his response was measured. “Very well.”

Greg held his breath, fingers tightening around his mug.

“Anthea was responsible for the entire event,” Mycroft said.

Greg nodded slowly, trying to piece together what he’d seen.

_She was researching the cars, no wonder she told Mycroft it was a dead end._

_She was circulating all evening but didn’t really make conversation._

_She had the contacts to make it happen._

“When did you work it out?” he asked, sipping at his tea. It was still too hot so he blew across the surface, sending steam skittering away.

“Early,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated before saying carefully, “I apologise that I did not share my deductions at the time.”

“I assume you wanted to work out why she was doing it,” Greg answered. He was surprised there was no anger bubbling in him, only curiosity. Maybe it was the tea, or the fact he and Mycroft were actually talking, but it didn’t matter anymore. There were bigger things on his mind.

“I had my suspicions,” Mycroft replied. “I wanted to be certain before we spoke.”

Greg nodded. “I think John said Sherlock had worked out the who, but not the why.”

“After you left,” Mycroft said, “Anthea approached me and outlined her part in the matter. We spoke and she made her motives clear.”

“Right,” Greg said. Mycroft seemed to be finding this quite difficult, but he was opening up. Pushing him would be a bad idea. “So, was it what you thought?”

“It was,” Mycroft replied.

“And then you came to find me,” Greg said. “Wait, how did you find me? All my stuff was in my coat.”

“Anthea quite helpfully tracked you with CCTV,” Mycroft admitted. “She made it clear her concern was for your welfare.”

“I’m sure it was,” Greg muttered. His tea was finally a good drinking temperature now and he took a mouthful, enjoying the heat spread down his throat. “Is the reason something you can tell me?”

Mycroft nodded, though he then drank from his tea before speaking. Greg’s brain automatically offered _nervous, playing for time_ but he silenced it. This was hardly a normal situation.

“Anthea,” Mycroft said, the words sounding forced, “believed in engineering this evening she would reveal our compatibility to us.”

Greg blinked. “Our…compatibility?” he asked. “In what sense?”

Mycroft swallowed, his eyes still on his tea. “Romantically,” he whispered, and the word fell like a stone between them.

_Romantically._

“This was a set up?” Greg asked. A lot of things fell into place. _I bet the suit was her too, then._ “Jesus, that’s got to be the most elaborate thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Agreed,” Mycroft replied. “Needless to say, she did not anticipate the end of the evening being quite so dramatic.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, discomfort spreading over his skin. He flexed his fingers, hoping it would dissipate. “Sorry.”

“Please do not apologise,” Mycroft said. He leaned in, his eyes pulled back up to meet Greg’s, earnest and sincere. “You have nothing for which to apologise. The results at the end of the evening were unexpected for us both.”

“Only to you and me,” Greg said. He tried for a smile, unsure if it came off. “Everyone else seemed to be on the same page there.”

Mycroft nodded sombrely. “I believe there was some widespread misinterpretation of our working partnership,” he said.

Greg was shaking his head before Mycroft had finished speaking. “Actually I think it was exactly the opposite,” he said. Mycroft drew a sharp breath and Greg could tell he knew exactly where this was heading. “There’s a difference between working together and…more than that.” He pulled in a deep breath, begging Mycroft to hold his eyes. “Think about who was at that party, Mycroft. Not just people we know, but people who know us.” He huffed a laugh. “Christ, I said it and heard it a dozen times. _It’s harder to read people you don’t know that well_. And who was there but a whole lot of people who would be able to read us well? People – mostly – trained to analyse behaviour. Who would be really, really hard to fool. And who would be most likely to see something we weren’t even aware we were projecting.”

Mycroft swallowed hard then raised his mug to drink. Greg wondered if his hands would be shaking was it not for the heavy mug. He knew he was pressing his own fingertips hard into the ceramic, grateful it was no longer so hot.

“I think putting us on the same team was to force us to interact more than we might,” Greg said, determined to finish this conversation. “And by not giving us another secret, we didn’t have to try to deal with that complication.” He took a deep breath. “It also meant that people would see who we really are. Neither of us were pretending anything. We couldn’t dismiss the outcome as people misreading our secret.” Mycroft’s eyes had grown wider and wider. “Would you say that’s a fair assessment?” Greg asked.

He lifted his mug as he waited for Mycroft to reply. The seconds ticked by, agonisingly slow until Mycroft took a deep breath and sat straighter.

“I do,” he said finally.

“Okay,” Greg said. While it appeared Mycroft had made a decision, Greg wasn’t entirely sure what that decision was.

“I don’t understand,” Mycroft admitted suddenly, “why you ran.” He placed his mug on the tea tray hard enough for some to slop over the side, words ringing in the quiet space.

“I panicked,” Greg told him.

“And yet you sit here, quite calmly evaluating an evening designed to expose our…” Mycroft realised what he was saying, but swallowed and continued, “secrets.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. He put his own mug down carefully and turned to Mycroft. “This is not how I might have planned this to go, Mycroft. And I might have strangled Anthea right there and then if I’d known it was her. But now that it’s out there, we can’t ignore it.”

“Are you certain?” Mycroft said quietly. “I feel we should consider it as an option.”

Greg sat very still. He didn’t want to blow off this suggestion; there was too much genuine longing under the strained amusement to be so cavalier. It was familiar because he felt it in himself. Now was the moment to be honest, and straight, whatever the outcome.

_Please let us both be brave._

“Do you really think you could?” Greg asked. “Because I don’t think I could. Not now.”

Mycroft nodded, accepting the answer. “And the alternatives?”

He sounded like a man expecting to hear the exact manner of his death, Greg realised. “Mycroft,” he said carefully, “why do you think Anthea planned this?”

He frowned. “I believe I told you she intended us to admit our…secrets?”

“I don’t mean ‘to set us up,’” Greg said patiently. “I mean, why did she try to set us up?”

Mycroft frowned again. “I have no idea,” he admitted quietly.

“I think she saw what we couldn’t,” Greg said. “Maybe what we didn’t want to acknowledge.” He drew another deep breath. “I think she saw what we could be, if we were honest, and she planned this ridiculous excuse for an ambush date to show us how obvious it is to everyone who knows us best.” He winced. “The end could have used some work, but you’ve gotta admit it did work.”

Mycroft’s mouth was hanging open, his heart in his eyes. “You saw me,” he said, the words as though in a dream. “You saw me glance at your mouth.” He swallowed, the colour flushing his cheeks as he held Greg’s eyes. “You knew what I was thinking.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “I did.”

Neither moved, their breathing loud in the silent room. Greg had no idea what was going through Mycroft’s mind. Was he seriously considering asking Greg to pretend this had never happened? What did he think he was going to say to the rest of the people who were there tonight? Or was he grappling with the same thing Greg was, the incredible, almost unbelievable prospect of this being possible?

“The way I see it,” Greg said, the pounding of his heard suddenly incredibly loud in his ears, “we have a couple of choices.”

“Go on,” Mycroft whispered.

“We could try and ignore it,” Greg said, “but I’ve tried that in the past and it’s never the same as it was. Everyone gets hurt.”

Mycroft nodded. “A suboptimal result,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “We could agree to go our separate ways, make our own lives.” This was harder to say than he thought. “Never see each other again.”

“Unlikely, given the Sherlock situation,” Mycroft replied. “And I suspect another option in which everybody gets hurt.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, biting his lip as Mycroft quoted him. Thighs trembling, he eased forward. “The last option,” he whispered, hearing his voice crack. “We see what it could be. No expectations, no plans, just…see.”

Mycroft nodded. “What would that look like?” he asked tentatively.

“We could make it look like whatever we wanted,” Greg said. “Something for us.” He paused before plunging forward, recklessness sharp on his tongue. “I would listen while you talked. Teach you to cook, if you wanted, though I reckon you look pretty comfortable in that kitchen. We would dance while dinner burned and order takeaway after because I couldn’t let you go.” Greg’s breathing was shaky as he laid out the most secret of his dreams. “And if you’d let me I would make our bed a safe haven against the world.”

Mycroft’s eyes were wider than Greg had ever seen. “I don’t,” he swallowed, “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

Greg reached out, taking Mycroft’s hand in his own. He was close enough he could rest their hands on Mycroft’s knee, relieved to feel the curl of fingers around his own, a firm press to hide the shaking, perhaps.

“We could begin right here,” he whispered. Deliberately, he dropped his eyes from Mycroft’s eyes to his mouth, allowing himself to trace the contours. Imagining how it would feel to settle his mouth over that shape, to coax it into matching his rhythm. He watched as Mycroft’s jaw slackened, his lips parting at the sharp inhale. Message received, then.

“Gregory,” Mycroft whispered.

His fingers tightened on Greg’s, pulling his attention so when Mycroft’s other hand touched his jaw, Greg jumped. They were gentle and warm, sliding along his skin until Mycroft’s palm cradled the curve of his face. By this time Greg had captured Mycroft’s eyes again, holding the disbelief until his eyes fluttered closed with the touch of Greg’s mouth to his.

It was exactly as glorious as Greg hoped. How could such a small, quiet experience shake his world so comprehensively? Mycroft was so present, surrounding Greg as he breathed and gripped and allowed relief and emotion to flow through him. The soft press eased, but Greg chased it, returning to Mycroft, groaning when his gentle strokes were met once more.

Stars still burned behind his eyes when they parted and Greg held onto the moment for as long as possible. Who knew what Mycroft would say? He may not have felt the same. Still might chose an earlier option despite the cost. Greg knew he would live with whatever Mycroft chose. He wouldn’t beg, or try to convince Mycroft. He’d laid it out, as much as his shaking heart was able and it was up to Mycroft to do what he would.

“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was quiet, but he was asking.

One more deep breath, and Greg opened his eyes. Mycroft’s hand was still on his face. That was a good sign, right?

“I should fire Anthea,” Mycroft said quietly. “Or possibly promote her.”

“I vote promotion,” Greg said. He still wasn’t entirely sure where they stood right now so he sat still and quiet, waiting for Mycroft to make his position clear.

“Noted,” Mycroft replied. His thumb was stroking Greg’s cheekbone; did he know that was happening? “I imagine there will be a range of complex conversations in our futures,” Mycroft said. “Given the events this evening.”

“Yeah,” Greg managed.

“Perhaps we could cook tomorrow evening and discuss our strategy,” Mycroft said.

Greg’s heart eased, then swelled as Mycroft leaned in to kiss him again. “Tomorrow night is good,” he said finally. “But what about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow can be managed,” Mycroft replied. “Given the late hour I thought perhaps,” he paused and Greg’s breath caught in his throat as Mycroft continued, “perhaps you might begin the process of transforming my bed as promised.”

_Jesus._

“Sleep might be a good start,” Greg said. He looked at the slow smile spreading over Mycroft’s face. “Although we’ll have tomorrow to sleep.”

“Precisely,” Mycroft murmured, bringing their lips together again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! This story was long in the planning, and it would never have seen the light of day without the help of englandwouldfalljohn. Beta, encourager and all around Certified Excellent Human; 10/10 would recommend.
> 
> Thank you everyone who read and took the time to guess at the outcome - Anthea was the clear favourite, and I suppose the obvious choice! I hope this last chapter has answered all your questions.


End file.
